Azeroth meets the End Times
by deadliestfan
Summary: This will be a series of misc short stories that serve as part of the account of the overall war between the Grand Legion of the Everchosen and the Defenders of Azeroth. Eventually, I hope to make a second story that will tell the tale of the conflict between two of the most popular Fantasy universes around. Now merged into one story doc to prevent clutter.
1. Ghorak

With a roar of equal parts rage and wild pleasure Ghorak, blessed of the gods, ripped the tiny green imp's shoulder open with his teeth. He swallowed a chunk of flesh, though it was not particularly tasteful. No it was polluted, ripe not with the glorious rot of the Crowfather but with something fouler. It was something that represented defiance to the works of the gods and natural order of the Beast; something that every true Child of Chaos hated with depthless loathing. It was something _civilized_.

The flesh smelled like the foul black clouds that came from the dwellings of Manflesh, tasted like the terrible liquid that the prey race used to power their abominations. It offended him. Hate already present grew further.

With a snarl the Wargor slammed the injured creature to the ground. Green-imps were a cowardly race that had warred against—and sometimes with—the true Children of Chaos since the rise of the First Beast. So the Shamans said and through them the gods spoke. That imp race—_Goblins_, in the man-tongue—always ran from battle unless attacking in ambush backed by great numbers of their kind. They bickered, stabbed each other in the back and had a low cunning that made them frustrating to exterminate.

Not from lack of trying. The Children of Chaos butchered them whenever they were found but they always came back. Turnskins say that before their blessings they fought goblins many times, and that the other damned races of the world—Elves and Dwarfs—do as well. Perhaps they were—like the Beast—part of the natural order of things. Perhaps the gods would have their children fight and kill them for all time in their honor, as the Children of Chaos did with everything else.

That did not mean Ghorak would stop hating their existence. Knowing the gods, they likely approved of this. Yet now he found a new reason to hate. These goblins did not run as easily as their forest kin. Ghorak's warherd of thirty-five had ambushed a pack of fourteen goblins. The green imps should have run away unless they had three times that number. They did not. Nor did they bicker among each other or stab each other in the back. This was unnatural. Northmen had said these goblins were different, only alike from others in appearance, but Ghorak had not believed them until now.

Around him six of his band already lay dead. Two had died from goblins emerging from the shadows with envenomed blades, another three dead by the foul smoke-spewing, cracking guns of the goblins. The last—a worthless Ungor—had been hit by a strange magical bolt that shrunk him to one-fourth his original size. Unfortunately for that miniaturized Ungor, he had been in the path of the Minotaur that Ghorak had been able to coax along. Now all that remained were crushed organs were stuck to the Minotaur's foot.

Yet the Warherd had caught the imps by surprise, in melee and their foe was puny. More than half lay dead already, their bodies split open by the sheer force of their foe's weapons. At least two were proliferated with arrows, shot by the Ungors. Now Ghorak would add to that death tally.

With a howl he brought his axe down just as his wounded foe with a grimace of delightful pain, reached to the strap of leather that crisscrossed his groin. Something red was pushed.

The world beneath Ghorak ignited as the boots ignited. Ghorak bleated in shock, dropped the axe and tripped over a fallen corpse backing over. His bleats turned to a brief cry of pain as his legs were burned by the jet of fire. Before he could punish the little imp the creature's boots propelled it through some bushes and behind a clearing.

If Ghorak was furious before (for in truth the Children of Chaos always are) he was apoplectic now! Primal rage extending back to the beginning fueled him; all the fury of his slighted race filled. The creature had escaped using the ungodly tools that Man so adored! The tools Mankind brought everywhere with him and that allowed him to warp the land into something offensive to the gods. Something a turnskin had called tech-kno-ligy. Or something similar.

More than that the goblin had made a fool of Ghorak in front of his herd! Made him look weak! There would be challenges later tonight from the other Gors, maybe even the Minotaur now!

Roaring, Ghorak leapt to his feet and ran for the clearing. The Goblin had revealed his cunning, another similarity to their forest cousins. Yet their cunning only ever delayed the Fury of the Beast, not stop it. He would find this little imp and rip the creature's guts out with his bare hands for the crime of making the Wargor seem weak. Then he would defecate on his dying corpse for the goblin's crime of using that word. Techno something.

In truth the Wargor was not certain why his race hated the word or represented it so much. The Shamans had spoken that one day the ancestors had lost their dominance over weak Man, and that tools had played a part, but Man used tools all the time, and beasts still dominated the forests. Indeed Man with their tools could only dominate a few safe havens surrounded on all sides by the immense forests. If anything Man was still as much prey as ever, just prey trapped in their dens.

Suddenly, there was a great yell from another clearing to the side. Four wolves carrying Orcs leapt out, their lupine forms immediately tearing into a pair of unlucky Ungor cowards that had hovered away from the melee. They gave a cry that was unlike the normal Orc battle shout, but equally insensible.

Ghorak snorted in contempt. Another similarity. Just like Goblins needing their bigger cousins to pull them out of danger. Five of the Goblins—and the strange creature of earth they had summoned—still fought, but the rest of the herd that were out of combat charged these new intruders foreseeing greater glory in fighting the Orcs over the Goblins, even if they appeared punier than usual.

Yet if they were puny, they were also cunning. Three of them pulled out great nets and hurled them at the forward ranks of charging Gors and Ungors. One, poorly adjusted for the Beastman's speed, missed entirely. Another was blocked by a Gor's great axe as the Beastman raised it to defend. It still wrapped up and entangled the weapon, forcing the snarling Gor to halt and fumble with trying to remove it with undexterous hands. The third wrapped itself along the legs of the forward most Gor tripping him. His companions showed him no mercy and he was quickly crushed under foot.

Ghorak leapt through the air at the first Orc, fury filling every fiber of his being. He brought his axe down in a great overhand arc. The Orc, with comparable strength, blocked it with his great glaive yet such was the force of the Wargor's blow that beneath him the wolf staggered. The Orc's eyes were focused and clear, but the Wargor had won his place by besting Gors and Ungors alike. Moving quickly he slammed his horned head into the Orc's skull. A human face would have caved but the Orc was knocked from his perch.

The now recovered wolf leapt for his throat but, from beside him, the remaining Beastigor tackled the creature to the ground. Ghorak nodded. The Orc was his to finish, though it was not a worthy combat.

Before Ghorak could bring his axe to bear he was interrupted by a noise unlike anything he had ever heard before. It was a shriek that sounded like the mixture of several dying birds and the rhythmic cutting of axe on wood. No, that is what it reminded him of, but it was not exactly that. With wariness that he had not felt ever before, every Beastmen briefly glanced at the new sound.

From the clearing they came, a pair of minotaur sized metal giants. In one hand they had a vile claw, in the other a spinning circular blade. It was a giant tool, a tool that could move on its own—think on its own. Their very existence was an anathema to the creatures of Chaos that stared, mouths agape. For a second they were so torn between colossal hatred and horror that they could not move.

The distraction was fatal. Goblins took advantage of it to press home their attacks with strange devices, envenomed blades, or, in one case, a fireball. The other two remaining Orcs that were still moving howled and bowled over some Gors, mount and rider working together to tear them to pieces. The Wargor's Orc pulled out a second blade and with the same nonsensical war cry drove it through the plate armored chest of the Wargor.

_Lok'tar Ogar!_

If the Orc thought this was victory, he was a fool. Instead he found only death. The Wargor was a champion of the gods, if only a minor one, and was endowed with the resilience of two hearts. Ghorak brought his ax down on the surprised Orc and with a smash split the head below in many pieces. Another Orc, who had lost his wolf but just finished his other opponent with a decapitation, howled in outrage and leapt at the Wargor, who met his charge head on. The Orc was knocked down and, wasting no time, Ghorak raised his ax to death a swift blow so he could turn his attention to the metal giants…

Only for the claw of one of them to reach out over his hand and clamp down. A moment later the Wargor howled and then bleated in desperate pain as it squeezed, smashing bone and ligament to ruin in a gory pop. The axe was dropped but curiously the creature of metal did not bring the blade around. Instead it began to lift him up.

Through his bleats and blurry eyes, the Beastman caught a glance at the rest of the battle. It was a massacre, though not the type he would have liked. Four of his herd was in pieces as a result of the living tools, with another getting disemboweled by the brutal shrieking blade even as he watched. The rest of the herd was retreating, though the pursuing Orcs and goblins were running them down. Only the Minotaur, having just finished greedily devouring a few goblin corpses, still fought. It charged the second metal giant which hastily turned to meet it.

As the Wargor was raised so his head met the tool's head, the thought briefly passed through that he could maybe break open its skull with the unwounded hand and still prevail. This same thought seemed to occur to the living tool, which stopped the spinning blade but used the weapon to brutally pin the Wargor's remaining arm to his side. The Wargor screamed in pain as the Minotaur bellowed in rage, its giant ax coming down at the other living tool's shoulder.

Then the head of the living tool lowered, revealing Torn-Shoulder, the Goblin with the boots of fire. Its face lit up in a horrific grin, and the Wargor was reminded of the terrible malice of the little imp race, comparable only to the cruelty of the Ungors as they sought to take out their frustrations on whatever they could. No, this was worse, for an Ungor or Goblin could only pick out your eyes, cook you alive or perhaps disembowel you slowly. This smile held malice of the unknown, of horrific means of torture using tools that could not be devised in any sane mind.

To the side the other living tool had caught the axe of the minotaur with the clamper, and was in the process of brutally disemboweling with the blade.

At the last the Wargor finally understood his race's long hatred of technology. It was an advantage that they could never have, a mystical set of tools that they could never overcome, only rage against. More than that he understood it to be fear. It was a sense of foreboding that the Beastmen were outdated and irrelevant in any era where the tool, where this _technology _was dominant. This was the doom of the Children of Chaos, a foe that would one day break the forests, tame the wildlife and scour his race from the land forever.

At his side the blade began to turn.


	2. Assault on Clan Recundus

To clarify the summary I am planning to first do a series of short stories regarding a hypothetical war in which the Grand Legion of the Everchosen (Beastmen, Daemons, Warriors of Chaos, Skaven and Chaos Dwarfs) fight against the Defenders of Azeroth (Alliance and Horde primarily) . I have done much research into this prospect, and given my now acquired knowledge of both Warcraft and Warhammer Fantasy I believe it will be a extremely cataclysmic and closely contested matchup. Once I am done with the one-off short stories I will then attempt my hand at retelling a main, central conflict in a neutral battlefield (*hint* its a extremely popular anime right now) .

***Credit goes to Blizzard, Games Workshop, Black Library and everyone else who owns anything seen here. Also to my fantastic editor. **

**ASSAULT ON CLAN RECUNDUS**

"Quick-quick. Through here now. Man-things approach-come!"

His proclamation was met with the excited chirp of dozens of Clanrats as they assembled themselves into something that might loosely be called a formation, making sure of course, to push the wretched Skavenslaves forward. The plan was based off of standard Skaven smart-genius stratagem: let the slaves take the fire meant for more worthy adversaries. Then, once the enemy was weakened, send in Clanrats to break through and overwhelm the exhausted foes. But Chieftain Squeeltwitch of Clan Recundus was clever-smart beyond normal Skaven cunning. To this genius, time-perfected Skaven planning he added his own twists.

Yes-yes victory would be his over the strange Man-things of the unknown fact that they had brought their allies, the Dwarf-things and elfish Purple-ear things would make this only more glorious. For they were marching into a trap, a trap made by a Skaven of infallible intellect and infinite cunning. These lesser races before him were fool-fools who, for a reason beyond the Chieftain, chased those enslaved by his glorious master race down even into Skaven lairs. It befuddled Squeeltwitch to think that the slave workers, pups and breeder female things would be held in such high value to them. Rescuing the wretched Man-thing non-warriors who had been captured in the last raid.

In the end they were fools, stupid and arrogant for thinking they held a chance against the superior race in their own lairs. Now they would serve as an abject lesson to those who would stand in the way of the Skaven and their destiny!

Squeeltwitch leered at his captives, a pair of Man-thing female breeders and a young pup. These Man-things would bring much profit-gain when they were sold to the flesh-works of Clan Moulder! He looked back at the encroaching enemy and his grin grew more malevolent still. Yes Moulder would pay a high price for worthy captives, while his own clan would most humbly only take the armor and weaponry of the enemy.

The unusual enemy lined up orderly in their formations, grouped and huddled together closely. It was an armored formation measured 15 by 3, though the enemy had enough room for another on the sides. Skaven foresight had seen to widen the tunnels to accommodate larger groups to raid the surface, something Squeeltwitch himself had organized, anticipating greater profit. Still he did not plan for his enemy to use the tunnels to come to him. How could they have known which tunnels to use?

The Skaven's keen eyes took in his enemy force composition and more besides. For a moment he blinked in surprise, noting that the entire force, disregarding a few purple-ear elf-things in the rear, wore entire suits of plate. This was something that the Skaven had come to associate with those that rode the horse-things and lorded over the lesser Man-things in a crude parody of Skaven culture. Squeeltwitch was aghast at his enemy's insanity-stupidity. Had they sent a force of all leaders to assault Skaven lairs with no fodder as shield-meat?

More so these lesser races fought side by side, not in their own units. Man-thing fought along Dwarf-thing which in turn fought along the Purple-ear-things. This puzzled Squeeltwitch. Didn't the Dwarf-things have a long hatred of the purple-ears' cousins, the Elf-things? But that was only a source of minor puzzlement compared to the next discovery.

As they marched closer his keen eyes focused on chests and faces—with utter shock he noticed almost _half_ of them were _**female breeders**_! For a moment he was too stunned to even contemplate ordering an assault. They brought breeders _to_ battle! He accepted that the Purple-ears might indulge in that sort of insanity, but Dwarf and Man-things too? Never had they before. Males fought while breeders hid, or only fought when cornered. But to take them to battle, to fight-slay? And in expensive hard armor at that?

"These Man-things are mad-mad yes?" He stated aloud to his Stormvermin, of which about forty of them were with him at the moment. "They rush into our lairs to save a bunch of fool-fools, bring breeders to fight-slay, and give them valuable steel at the same time?"

His Stormvermin would typically nod along with his musings, eager to stay in their master's favor. Today they did so as well, but with a degree of sincerity. His Fangleader, his right claw Skribbit squeaked up. "You are undoubtedly correct, oh most perceptive of chieftains. But please consider this unworthy one's thought-musings. Wouldn't it have been easier to collapse the tunnel earlier to kill-slay these villainous interlopers? Then we could have picked-claimed armor from their corpses, enslave the survivors. Your plan is truly without flaws, mighty lord-leader, so surely your mighty-cleverness thought of easier alternative?"

Squeeltwitch had to resist the urge to bare his teeth. Lately his Fangleader's ambition had risen above his station, and he most obviously wanted his master's position. He had taken to little annoying, needling criticisms masked behind the veil of sycophantic prattling. It would not have been bad except he made such statements aloud so others could hear him. Perhaps it was time for the Fangleader to have an unfortunate accident-death.

He turned to share a glance with his brood-brother, Snarltwitch, his second claw born of the same litter as he was. Yes-yes it would have to happen soon. Unlike Fangleader Skribbit, he did not need to worry about Snarltwitch. This insane brood-brother was one of those few who sought to emulate the mad Mors warlord, Queek Headtaker, and so Snarltwitch cared only about fighting and much less about scheming. So long as Chieftain Squeeltwitch gave Snarltwitch something worthy to kill-slay, he would obey.

"You would normally be correct-right, Fangleader Skribbit. Yet I perceived before that many of these were breeders and thus easy prey-food. There is no need to kill-slay the majority of them when there are so many slaves to make a profit with Moulder."

Of course, he left out the part that he already tried blowing up a support structure as the things were crossing it. Fangleader Skribbit did not need to know. What happened was beyond him, either the device failed or he had been betrayed by sabatoge. Stupid-useless Clan Skyre device!

Nevertheless he was confident now more than ever that his genius would win the day, if his minions could be counted on to serve well-good.

"Now-now. Charge mighty Skaven, charge and kill-slay the foe-enemies of the Horned Rat."

With a chippering, squeaking battle cry the Clanrats pushed, prodded and sometimes even stabbed the Skavenslaves forward in one large, terrified, chittering mass. Slaves by the dozens rushed forward with squeaks of rage and terror.

The enemy line stood calmly—Man-thing armed with swords in the front locked shields however the weapon set was hardly uniform. The Dwarf-things predictably carried maces and axes, while those Man-things towards the middle held an assortment of swords, axes, and at least one had a poleax. The rear contained about ten Purple-ears, with bows and strange circular blades at their side along with two unarmored Man-thing breeders and between the pair stood a heavily armored, giant hammer wielding man that must be their leader.

The Purple-ears began to rain well-timed volleys onto the Skavenslaves slaying them by the dozens—just as planned! But they were still urged forward; there were so few enemies surely the legion of two hundred would slay-eat the foe. At roughly a hundred skitter-feet away many of the shielders pulled out small crossbows. Already loaded, they fired into the Skaven mass. Behind them the archers loosed another hailstorm of arrows. At that range, with so many Skaven present, it was hard to miss.

Two score fell from the combined volley, dead either immediately or faltering in their charge by wounds were trampled to the ground by their charging companions. The chittering, terrified mass never let their fallen companions get up as they ran right on top of them. Other fool-fool races might try to help their companions up but never the strong-mighty Skaven! The weak-worthless were unworthy of life.

The shielders hastily put their crossbows away, knowing they did not have time further to reload. Once again Squeeltwitch marveled at how well equipped his enemy was. Surely these were all leader-chieftains of the Man-things, what was called in their crude tongue "nobles"?

Archer fire continued to impact the ever-changing frontlines, expert shots seeking throats, faces and chests, though in truth no matter where they hit they would probably incapacitate. To be fair Squeeltwitch had to admit that he could have ensured that his slaves were at least equipped with some small rotted wooden shields to stop as many dying prematurely from ranged projectiles.

However the choice at the time was between that or spending ten minutes with a female breeder. Squeeltwitch had most-wisely chosen the latter; he must ensure the continuation of strong Skaven through his superior future pups! Was not just his right of course, but his expected responsibility. Better than that he had actually clever-bargained a total of _fifteen minutes_ by selling away the most of his slaves' knives (those that were in hand or belt and not hidden up some foul orifice) to be used as scalpels by Clan Moulder specialists, who at the time were in need-want of them.

After all, couldn't his slaves simply pick up rocks or sharp sticks on the ground? Come to think of it they could simply pick up weaponry off the fallen dead, yes-yes!

Suddenly there was a flash of teal followed by twin bolts of ice crashing into a pair of slave-rats, impaling them with meter long ice shards. A second later and a ball of fire hit a third slave in the chest, instantly setting him alight. The slave screeched and desperately dropped to the ground to try to smother the flames in dirt.

Under normal circumstances, the other rats would have simply trampled right over those that had fallen. However a rat-torch was not a normal circumstance. The Skaven behind screeched and panicked, forced by momentum to continue the charge but desperate to avoid the fiery demise of their comrade. Several leapt over the soon to be corpse successfully, however two did not. They fell (or perhaps were pushed?) on top of the blaze, their screams and squeaks joining the first torched rat. Others, unable to react in time, floundered and fell into the growing, writhing pile of meat. But at least after the pile had grown three stacks from the ground, they managed to smother-extinguish the fire through sheer press of bodies.

By now more than half his legion of two hundred slaves were down, either dead or soon to be. Fortunately he had another, and another if need be.

"Second legion, forward-go!"

The first had just now reached the armored shield wall. Those in front only now coming to terms with their obvious disadvantages, slowed and desperately tried to turn back. But momentum drove them forward and hurled them bodily into the shield wall.

Shielders dug their feet into the ground and pressed forward, aided by their brethren to the back. Sword strikes swung overhand, every blow hacking into mangy limb, torso or skull. Second ranks added to the carnage with powerful hammer swings or prodding spear thrusts. Dwarf-things shouldered the bottom portion of their ally's shields, forming an anchor even as they maneuvered their weapons under the large shield to hack at the slave's legs. Expert Purple-eared archers shot in arcs to catch the ones just behind through the ranks even around the Skaven or point-blank, into their foes glowing red eyes. For their part slaves scratched, stabbed with crude spears or else tried to smash with basic rocks. All either clanged or shattered off of the steel armor. They were feisty and quick but could not prevail at more than irritating or flesh-wounding the foe. When they tried grabbing weapons or prying limbs to reach softer joint-flesh, the Dwarf-things would smash or stab the offender relieving the Man-thing of his danger.

The second full legion of 200 slammed into the remnants of the first, their momentum adding to the overall horde and slowly starting to push the second rank back. Progress! That a few slaves were crushed to death as a result was of course barely noteworthy. Still, the chieftain could not help but be surprised at how the breeders continued to fight along with the males. Surely such weak creatures should have perished to even an armed slave?

Squeeltwitch turned to his Stormvermin; now was the time to reveal his glorious cunning-craft!

"Send the claw pack of Squilch forward; let the Clanrats distract the shielders and keep the slaves in battle. Together we go to achieve great victory for the Horned Rat!"

Incredulous Fangleader Skribbit looked at the melee. Those at the front were now trying to flee, spraying their fear musk everywhere. In time this would cause the other slaves to flee, and though the Clanrats would forcibly press them to the front, the fact that the armored Man-things had yet to take a single causality—if even a scratch!—was worrying.

"Mighty Chieftain. The slaves are being useless-meat. Thanks to their incompetence the enemy isn't even wounded! How tell-share can our clan achieve now, oh glorious one?"

Squeeltwitch was indulgent.

"Why through _your _cunning-skill as well as my brilliant foresight! Our engineers dug for little anticipated raid on our mighty den, and constructed multiple tunnel-routes one could use to escape. Through your bold maneuvering you will take the second claw-pack and assault the unarmored things from the rear! Once done the shielders will be surrounded, press-crushed and destroyed! My servant stands by the entrance of the tunnels over there."

The Fangleader looked doubtfully at the entrance, but made a good show of feigning excitement. It was unusual to give the task of assaulting from the rear—and a chance of escape—to the lesser.

As if sensing the dubious thoughts of his right-claw rat, Squeeltwitch almost bowed politely. "You shall of course, earn-take the first pick of armor as a reward. As is right for a hero's position."

This caused Fangleader Skribbit to perk up but he still looked doubtful, and with good reason. Still to disobey a direct order would mean automatic death, and Squeeltwitch was looking for an excuse. The Fangleader looked once again at the front, where above the Skaven forces icicles the length of his arm were formed out of thin air before dropping onto the unfortunate slave rats below, impaling them in several places. That decided that, a sneak attack in rickety tunnels was made preferable.

"Very well-good, oh my generous of patrons. I, _humble_ Skribbit, shall destroy-extinguish this foe in the name of his most wise chieftain."

And, with that little bit of sycophancy, Skribbit took twenty of the Stormvermin and left.

Squeeltwitch let his smile drop slightly, but not totally. The tunnels would indeed take him to the rear of the enemy force, but he "forgot" to mention that they were rickety things built in the event Squeeltwitch needed a sudden escape. It was not built for large numbers of troops moving through it.

This is why Squeeltwitch would be ensure his most loyal servant received much needed reinforcements in the form of Clanrats from Clan Gestous. And from the other tunnels, his real plan for winning the skirmish.

"Skribbit shall not be coming out of that tunnel alive-well, I take it?" Snarltwitch asked.

Squeeltwitch practically growled. "Correct, broodling-brother. And with that, a major thorn in our backside shall be removed."

Snarltwitch just grunted. "This back stab-stab all just a waste of time. I would rather make Man-things die-die."

Squeeltwitch grinned indulgently at his brood sibling. This is why he could almost come close to trusting him, for like his mentor from afar Snarltwitch seemed to only enjoy the fields of battle over plotting.

At the front of the battle, the first Man-thing had fallen with a shiv shoved straight through his visor. Another had simply fallen and frenzied Skavenslaves swarmed over his body, desperately trying to find chinks or remove pieces of his armor. Skaven teeth and claws were as good as small knifes. As it was, they would likely crush him through pure weight first or else suffocate him.

Without warning a bright beam of light shined down on the fallen Man-thing. It was so bright and so intense that Squeeltwitch could hardly bear to look at it especially in the dark tunnel, and he had to raise a gauntleted glove to screen his eyes. Those Skavenslaves on the body writhed and screamed as the cursed light scorched them as thoroughly as a blazing inferno. A few seemed to practically disintegrate instantly, while others leapt up screeching as they clutched charred faces, tails, and melted limbs. It was only a few lucky slaves that got up apparently unharmed, though even they were screaming their pain to the entire world, as if the light had bypassed the body and scarred the soul, and others had lifeless eye sockets from the sudden piercing light in such dark depths.

The fallen Man-thing meanwhile, leapt up with a sort of vigor that one who had enduring Skavenslave assaults while wearing heavy plate had no right to feel. The shield bearer retook his place in the front line, slaying faster than before.

From his perch most bravely and safely at the rear of the battlefield, Squeeltwitch espied the creator of the light, the heavily armed hammer individual at the rear of force. He had thought the Man-thing just the commander; he had not realized there he was a third mage among the group.

But finally yet another Man-thing had fallen, and the archers to the rear were clearly out of ammunition, this rate of attrition was unacceptable even to the Squeeltwitch. Two or three deaths and some wounded at the cost of almost 400 Slaves? Time for the chieftain to reveal his cunning.

"Snarltwitch, raise your banner high. Then order-command the next Clanrat unit through the tunnels. Skkkrit," he motioned another underling, a messenger, "tell Enginmek to prepare his team."

Yes, his ingenuity would pay off soon. Already fortune seemed to favor him, as a gap in the shielders appeared, which new fresh Clanrats and the few remaining slaves that hadn't died or somehow managed to flee exploited.

He looked over at the Skyre weapon team commander Enginmek, who along with his two assistants sported a Doom-Flayer. The bulbous, all-metal machine had cost a small fortune for a clan of his size. But part of its construction supposedly demanded quality weapons from 40% of his Clanrats (which after he most assuredly wins this battle he will get his claws on more weapons anyway) along with swearing to hand over a small "tithe" of 5% of loot gained every month until it could be paid off (he could have sworn that he had only signed for two weeks, but Skyre representatives inform-tell that it was actually 2 months, then 2 years).

Down below another shielder had finally fallen, beaten over the head repeatedly with crude clubs. Another should have fallen, for he was bleeding from a slash to his throat, but then the same light from before illuminated him. The Man-thing promptly ceased bleeding, and fought with a new zeal.

The cowardly Man-things were cheating. No matter, that gave the Skaven the right to cheat too.

"Quick-quick. Send clawleader Scritz through the tunnels to help-aid dear Skribbit!

Though the Purple-eared archers at the rear had now exhausted their ammunition, the mages had not, even if their movements were becoming slower. The ice mage hurled a bolt of frost at a Clanrat to the rear, freezing him solid. The Fire Mage chucked a ball of flame into the crowd. Clanrats scattered and tripped over each other trying to avoid it, but it was for naught as the ball, once it landed, exploded outward, burning those closest.

Yet the mage was not paying attention to all of his surroundings. From the rear came a trio of black hooded Gutter Runners armed with poisoned stars. These were not from Clan Eshin however, but from one of the clans trying to steal Eshin's secrets to use for their own benefit. As they were cheaper than Eshin's services Squeeltwitch had bought them, not truly expecting to have to actually follow through with the commitment. After all such clans usually only lasted until Eshin got annoyed enough to send a Deathmaster after the offending clan. Squeeltwitch had no doubt that Clan Snitchk would be feeling their wrath soon.

The first mage turned too slow. Before the fire mage could unleash a fireball three fast-flying blades ripped through the air. Two hit his throat while another buried itself right in the forehead. The mage dropped before he could even begin an incarnation.

Far faster than a Man-thing could, long Purple ear-things abruptly flipped around just as a hail of blades-shurikens headed their way. A few fit in arms and legs regardless, with one taking a purple ear out through a throat hit. Many however missed, courtesy of the incredibly agility of the purple ear breeders.

But the breeders hurled blades of their own—large, disc-shaped things that twisted through the air. The mage commander, whose odd armor adjourned with jewels had blocked the blades, turned and with a spoken shackles of light bound themselves around the Gutter Runners' knees. The Runner screeched out as if the chains were made of fire. Unable to move, a disc-blade buried itself right in the runner's chest. The other two used training honed in at mysterious Eshin temple-sects (or whatever Snitchk had) to jump over the blades, throwing more poisoned stars even as they dodged over the discs.

Several of them grazed the purple-ears, but they were not their target. Men in the rear ranks of the shieldwall cried out as tiny blades buried into their backs, the fast acting toxins soon to follow. However one of the disc blades hit a stone, then changed angles and crashed into another, then another before, in an unbelievable display, heading back the way it came. Clever-smart Purple ear-things!

It crashed into an unsuspecting Gutter Runner's blade first. Part of the blade punched out the back and through the Skaven's chest, the momentum driving the Skaven closer before ending almost at the disc-blade's wielders' feet.

The last prepared to retreat but was heartened by the sudden sight of four more tunnel holes—clever hidden for just this reason—opening all at once! Stormvermin and Clanrats burst through. Cries of surprise, shock and even a little fear played through the enemy ranks at their sight as the back row of shielders hastily turned around even as those Skaven at the front pushed harder than before.

Squeeltwitch however cursed. This was not to plan! His servant Skribbit was supposed to only emerge from one tunnel not several. Now it would be harder to collapse in on him, as Squeeltwitch could hardly know which support beam to collapse to crush his disloyal minion. Unless he did them all at once…

No, that would wait. First things first. Squeeltwitch motioned at Enginmek to start turning the machine.

Yes-yes, he would order the Skyre weaponsmith to charge straight for the rear commander. Surely he could not be blamed if his lieutenant Fangleader Skribbit was "accidentally meat-flayed" holding the Man-thing leader to his doom. Tragic but the death of him in glorious line of duty would suspend any doubt of assassination altogether.

At the rear meanwhile the last Gutter Runner had hurled his last shurikens directly at the mage-breeder's chest, burying two in, but shortly paid for it as the light-twitch magic leader blasted him with brightness of such intensity that half of the Gutter Runner seemed to dissipate instantly. The mage-leader reached down and pulled the breeder Man-thing back as several of the shielders charged forward, covering their master's retreat. Stormvermin and Clanrats crashed into these shielders, forcing them to reel as their backs came ever nearer to those still fighting from the front. The Stormvermin were met by the remaining inner soldiers shooting the small crossbows in a last-ditch effort to stave off what was now inevitable.

Those Purple-eared things that remained took a position behind the shields, hurling and stabbing outward with their disc-blades when able. However their effectiveness was clearly limited to Squeeltwitch's eyes, for they had difficulty maneuvering their big blades around the backs of the Man-things without hitting them. Meanwhile the shielders, which had done all too well against the Skavenslaves and proved a good counter to the Clanrats, were finding a foe that could be considered more equal in the Stormvermin. He was pleased to see an arrogant shielder take a halberd to the helmet, even if the Stormvermin who did was stabbed through the neck by a companion of the slain soldier.

"Go-go, Snarltwitch. Wait till after the Doom-flayer hit them and go to kill-kill and seize the loot!"

Thus commanded, Snarltwitch gratefully nodded, for Squeeltwitch knew that Snarltwitch greatly desired to shed blood. His broodling-brother took the other half remaining Stormvermin before heading towards the front, watching Enginmek carefully in the corner of his eye. Squeeltwitch felt a sort of faint gratitude for his brother, whose simple minded desires made him somewhat reliable. A rarity in the Skaven world, oh yes-yes!

Finally there was a loud grinding sound. It was a bloated sphere of metal with a spinning drill at the front sporting a whirlwind of clawed blades so that every direction was a carving sword storm of shield-ripping power. And what tried to dart from it would be severed at the knees by the wild scraping scythes on either unequal side.

Squeeltwitch prided himself on his genius. The Doom-Flayer was as cheap to maintain as a Ratling Gun, but did not kill-kill Skaven as much. Not that the warlord cared but one could never know if a Skaven leader could put enough bodies between himself and the infernal death-spitting device in the event of an accident. IT was even safer compared to the much more expensive Poisoned Wind Mortar or Warpfire Thrower. Indeed he bore witness to a "paid" team to lob a deadly orb at his own commander in an early time, and the Warpfire was known for explosive and unpredictable results equally killing the enemy as it did the Skaven—and more importantly, the employers who bought them.

But a Doom-Flayer? Just stand behind it and march into the exploited gap.

The few remaining Skavenslaves and Clanrats attacking the front could hear the oncoming sounds that were unmistakably from a Clan Skyre infernal killing machine. Those in the rearmost ranks had the longest chance to look and flee to the flanks. Those near the front face-to-face with the enemy—not so much. The elfish Purple ear-things made warning, but the Man-thing shielders busy at keeping the front stable had little time to heed.

The Doom-flayer impaled a Skavenslave who screeched up and flailed about but only for a few moments before bits of his bones and organs were slung everywhere. The scythes on the side split bodies on the ground, both dead and wounded while tangling up tails and pulling in those who dove-quick. The shower of Skaven bodies did no real damage to the Man-things, but the Doom-flayer barely slowed as it rammed the first shielder in the way. The drill spun like a screw into a wine cork before twisting the shield and the arm attached before splitting a growing hole at the center of it. The Dwarf-things nearer the ground crouching low were crushed and smashed underneath, their heads and limbs twirling about the tornado of carnage.

Over a dozen Skaven in its path died. It was a great success. Enginmek squeaked with excitement as he lashed his lackeys to drive more power into the machine. It was the first time the foe actually bothered holding fast rather than running. The worry of being flanked or hurt was overwhelmed by the fact that fast food in the form of severed limbs were raining around him—a heap of rare carnage.

Squeeltwitch rose up and pointed his curved sword towards the gap in the enemy ranks. "Go-quick! All Skaven attack!"

Though more than half his clan's forces had died, the foe was almost destroyed. Survivors and other Skaven vainly tried to shuffle together as several were caught and overwhelmed by screeching hordes, terrified by the potential death of the whirling Doom-flayer more so than the enemy, but emboldened by the prospect of flesh-meat in front of them.

Then the mage-leader who wielded the holy light rose, his eyes alight with the same terrible brightness as before. The commander began chanting a song, foul and unnatural to Skaven ears. A golden shield, at first faint, then bold but translucent, shimmered into being around the commander and his remaining troops. Bits of bone, armor and weapons ricocheted off the golden screen as the commander chanted louder and louder. At his side breeder females began motioning and speaking softly, no doubt to cast another foul spell.

"_No!_ I will not be cheated out of my victory-conquest, Man-things!" Squeeltwitch screamed in hoarse rage. "Enginmek, concentrate on shield. Destroy-kill it!"

The Skyre weaponsmith obliged, angry nearly as much as the Chieftain at the prospect of his enemy surviving. With a snap of his whip and a bloody flesh-spitting screech (from a hasty snack on a Dwarf-thing arm) Enginmek urged the machine be pushed to its limits. It rammed into the shield, and the gory foam of his saliva slopped everywhere as the drill struck head-on with the golden shimmer. The Man-things' mage commander struggled louder and louder, his arms raised and shaking as if carrying all the burden of the world upon him. Cracks began to emerge in the shield at the point of impact but amazingly it persisted.

Now the mage-commander was weakening, his legs sagging and blood pouring from every orifice. _Yes-yes_, thought Squeeltwitch, _it's over now_.

It was, just not in a way that the warlord could have anticipated. The mage-breeders by his side completed an incarnation and, with a flash of light, the remaining ten of the enemy's varied racial force disappeared without a trace!

For a moment the Doom-flayer crew kept going, unbelieving of their own eyes. Squeeltwitch snarled and quickly ordered them to shut it off lest it overheat and experience an 'accident' that Clan Skyre products were famous for, or else plow into a dozen ranks of the rear-flanking Skaven without cause.

"Treachery! Incompetence!" Squeeltwitch was in a fury, and raged against the Skyre weapon team, closing the distance before they could even think of turning the Doom-flayer on him. He grabbed Enginmek by the scruff of the neck and shook him, forcing him to drop the last bits of his meal. "Why did you not hit more-harder idiot? Why couldn't your weak inferior-product penetrate the golden shield, weaponsmith? Why…"

His eyes caught something, or rather a lack of something. Normally not a something he cared for but the Man-thing slaves—the breeders and the pup—were gone, as if they weren't there to begin with. They were supposed to be part of the treaty-pledge for Clan Moulder! Squeeltwitch tossed Enginmek to the floor before rounding on his slave-holder.

"Where is Man-things slave meat? Where are they?"

The Skaven stuttered and prattled quickly about them disappearing from thin air, adding in sycophantic praising for good measure. In this mood however, Squeeltwitch could only see subtle criticisms aimed at his ability, and responded accordingly. Several moments later, he kicked the decapitated head of the Skaven in frustration.

Then, from the tunnels, a new subject of his rage emerged. Skribbit, now clad in Man-thing plate and wielding a longsword, marched triumphantly together with what remained of his bodyguard in the same equipment. Things started falling into place as Squeeltwitch saw through his clever scheme. He, Squeeltwitch, was not responsible for the failure of his cunning scheme—_Skribbit was!_ The Man-things and their allies had not randomly found his den: Skribbit had arranged to lead them into it. It was he who had fed his Skavenslaves drugged meat to sap their strength so they couldn't even overcome breeders, he who had bribed Skyre to charge on the wrong foes first and depower the Doom-flayer. Then it had been he who had let the mage and his allies' skitterleap out with Man-thing prisoners in tow, knowing it would humiliate Squeeltwitch and slow down the rise of Clan Recundus' inherit-earned ascendency.

Squeeltwitch swore right then and there that he would make his overreaching lieutenant Skribbit pay. Pay slow and painfully for his crimes against Skavendom, the Horned Rat and of course himself _Squeeltwitch_. Oh yes-yes!

Perhaps if his ire had not been solely fixated on his ambitious lieutenant, he might have been more observant of the rats around him. Particularly, he might have seen the slightest hint of a grin on his broodling-brother Snarltwitch's lips.

Finally to answer the Reviews on my last piece of work...

DasPeas thank you for the compliments!

Guest Review you are absolutely right on the nature of the Beastmen, however it is also true that a Beastman would have a warped viewpoint on what is natural and what is not. From their perspective centered around the Chaos Gods and their creations, he might indeed think he is natural and the Others (like the Wood Elves )are not!


	3. Blighted

*all Credit Goes to Blizzard, Games Workshop, Black Library and other respective owners of the Intellectual Property seen below.

My Dearest Dark Lady,

As per your instructions I am sending an account regarding my experiences with the newest would-be affliction upon our lands, the so-called "Grand Legion of the Everchosen". Who or what this 'Everchosen' is remains in doubt, but I can very much assure you firsthand that his followers are indeed 'legion'.

When our host first arrived at (redacted) our immediate objective, as per your orders, was to seize control of the town graveyard. The accompanying lesser Vyrkuls immediately set about their sacred work. Though many unfortunate recruits were driven insane by their rebirth or else stubbornly ended themselves after awakening, I am pleased to announce that our numbers grew by several hundred by the end of the day. When a few of the native humans chose to protest they were most kindly informed that their complaints had been noted, but that it was the reborn's choice to join the Forsaken, not the Living. When a few still persisted one of the less patient Deathstalkers hurled a jar of blight into the crowd. A public relation's disaster unfortunately, but as the five civilians who perished were then 'recruited' into our growing army the damage was quickly undone.

I assure you my fair lady the Deathstalker who committed the act has been disciplined accordingly with a fine of fifty gold per human unjustly slain and the extension of tour of duty for another five years. Let none say a people as noble as the Forsaken are alien to the concept of justice!

Other than that unfortunate incident I would note that the Humans of this town had proven more malleable to our existence, and the promise offered, than others elsewhere. Quite a few approached members of the Apothecarium in private. See "Notation 1" for details.

At precisely three o'clock on the third day, the first of the Grand Legion of the Everchosen was sighted just over the hills. The barbarian raised his axe high in the air, screamed an insensible battle cry and then charged down the hill in a clearly aggressive manner. A trickle followed him, then a flood as, in moments, the hilltop was nothing more than a seething, raging pile of bodies. No dialogue was attempted as would be proper in war, which proved without a doubt these brutes approached us with the most savage intent.

Our response was measured and proper, the response by any civilized people when threatened by an unreasoning threat. As the distance between the hills and the town was several miles I ordered our soldiers to prepare immediately outside of town, and kindly requested aid from the police force. I regret that initially our request was rudely rebuffed, on the galling claim that I had not punished my soldier properly! Though the phrase the mayor used was far ruder and directly insulting to my personal state of hygiene, for diplomacy's sake I refrained from giving him the rebuttal his claim deserved! (see Notation 2)

Speaking calmly, I acknowledged that indeed the incident was regrettable, but more pressing matters were at hand. I pointed to the approaching horde and watched with no small measure of satisfaction as the mayor's face turned as pale as my own skin. Hastily, he nodded to my request.

As the enemy approached five hundred yards, I ordered the rangers under commander Alina to open fire. This they did with utmost skill and precision, as is fitting for any who fought alongside your august person, prior and after He-Who-Is-Better-Left-Forgotten changed the world irrevocably. I am pleased to note that scores of the barbarians fell under their volleys at ranges many would think impossible to achieve. At 200 yards, Alina and several of her highest ranking switched ammunition to the elusive 'Black Arrows' I had thought to be mere myth.

What a glorious and admittedly unnerving sight it was! Those slain by the magically enchanted shafts turned immediately, becoming powerful undead warriors who promptly turned on their fellow afflicted companions. Though it turns the stomach to see mindless undead on the field, one could not deny that they slowed the barbarian's charge, giving the most-capable Dark Rangers more time to unload their ammunition.

Deathguard and Apothecaries cheered at the sight. Though it would be improper for one of my stature to partake in such plebian gestures of enthusiasm, I confess that I allowed myself a light smattering of applause and the slightest gasp of air in the lungs in appreciation of the Ranger's efforts. Truly they can be counted among the best in the world, with respect to our Sin'dorei allies of course!

Alas as with many magical weapons the Black Arrows held only a limited supply and soon the Dark Rangers had exhausted their stash, followed by what standard arrows they carried in their quivers. Nevertheless their ammunition was well expended, as a group of less than forty had managed to slay almost 200 of the mongrels (see notation 3). Following proper procedure the Dark Rangers signaled their intent to retreat to the rear, which was graciously acknowledged. Dark Rangers are of rare stock indeed, and should not be risked in melee without significant gain.

As she left Dark Ranger Alina turned and, as the enemy was within 50 meters, locked eyes with one of the most vicious of the brutes. Said savage slowed, then halted, before turning on his fellows in blind fury with axe in hand, his will broke by the fair lady! With a smirk on her lips your protégée turned and left the field with every step highlighting great satisfaction. Most deserved as my report shows!

Now it was the turn of my Deathguard and the auxiliary riflemen. Though the Deathguard is a profoundly melee unit, protocol allows them to carry small crossbows for when ranged warfare is needed. A wise choice in this case, as a volley of bolts battered the enemy. Over two dozen fell, however I surmised that the warriors seemed to be endowed with a unnatural toughness, as many continued forward even when pelted with bolts, arrows and soon to be bullets.

Though it is discourteous to talk in a disrespectful manner of a new ally, I must confess disappointment in the riflemen. They appeared to feel genuine fear of the snarling barbarians before them. Hands shook along with rifles, and when the volley was unleashed many shots went wild. Their first and only volley, for they fled after the first, felled comparably fewer than the Rangers (which could be understood) and the Deathguard. After the first volley they fled, their will to fight broken by the snarling, foaming enemy charging their position. I turned to my human companion, the mayor, and tried to helpfully suggest to the poor gentlemen that I might have a way to 'deaden' the nerves of those riflemen. For some indiscernible reason, he just glared at my person the rest of the battle. How rude!

With admittedly impressive barbarian zeal, the charging marauders met the disciplined ranks of the Deathguard. Their momentum was a most potent element your majesty and many Forsaken were hacked in the early seconds of the fighting. However unlike those afflicted by the Curse of the Living, we Forsaken are made of more durable… essence. Pancreas, Spleen, Liver? All are outmoded organs. Our troops did not need half of what the enemy chopped into, and within moments the Deathguard had absorbed the charge. Fighting began in earnest, a brutal affair where admittedly greater zeal and ferocity of the barbarians met durability, armor and steadfast blows of our brave soldiers.

Preparing my horse, I resolved to intervene in the conflict below, for I would be an ungracious commander if I did not fight alongside my troops. Out of touching concern for my well-being, my second in command High Executor Darthailia bade me to cease and say. Deeply affected, I turned my horse around and looked her straight in the eyes and told her that later, after the battle, we would have a chance to explore the full extent of our blossoming relationship. I promised we would discuss our future together, go recreational swimming in the Blight Vanal, tour the lustrous city of Silvermoon and maybe even try to explore just how many of our lower organs are operational (as a gentleman, I shall abstain from going further into detail here).

My second-in-command sputtered at the sheer breadth of my offer, and then rolled her eyes. Or attempted to. One of them hadn't been properly lubricated and got stuck rolling upwards in its socket. Out of concern I offered her some of my spinal lubricant but was rebuffed with an insult to my intelligence, and then by her quick and vehement pointing at a foe on the horizon and my need to handle them.

I turned, and then did a double take. What I saw looked as if it had come out of demented lab of Putricide, or perhaps our own late, unlamented Warden Stillwater. Seven Humans the size of ogres lumbered across the battlefield, individuals clad in plate armor that seemed to be fused to flesh. Sensing that these individuals might pose a threat I ordered a second rifle volley from the auxiliaries, then moved hastily to order the Dark Rangers to take up the rifles before requesting that the humans use their odd "flying sword" technology to aid the fight below. Though their forte was with the bow, I trusted the Dark Ranger's accuracy and sleight of hand far more than any trembling human.

Forty shots rang out, and seven bodies rippled with bullets. Yet, amazingly, not one fell, merely slowed for a moment before continuing on. I confess myself amazed, and hastily ordered the Dark Rangers to reload. Tactfully ignoring their admittedly justified complaints about having to use a human weapon, I turned to the Apothecaries and ordered them to load a bombardment of Blight, 80% strength, into their catapults.

The Orc inspector in charge, who had been observing the battle, stood up and glared at me, putting his hands on his waist. Hastily, I assured our ally in arms that there was a miscommunication and that I had really meant 50% strength, as the maximum amount allowed under regulations, and ordered the Apothecaries to adjust their order. I took the Orc aside and complimented him on his dedication to Orc honor and the Warchief's commands. I made sure to fill my speech with as many grandiose and elegant words as possible. The better to keep our most esteemed and then-confused ally distracted while the Apothecaries readjusted the order back to 80%.

Another 30 rifle rounds rang out, and six more bodies simply slowed for a moment as bullets riddled them, before continuing on. By the fortune of the Shadow no less than 5 bullets connected with the 7th's head at once, which exploded in a torrent of blood and pus. Incredibly the man managed to take a couple more steps before collapsing.

Moments later the Blight landed directly on top of them. I expected to see satisfaction, to see men choking on the chemicals as the Curse of Life were purged from their bodies. Instead I saw the six stare around in confusion for a moment before jumping around and bouncing in the blight. Laughter echoed across the battlefield. At that moment I understood the horrible mistake I had made.

'Hold,' I ordered desperately and with great remorse at my action.

'Hold,' I let my dignity drop and screamed at the Dark Rangers.

'You may continue fighting the humans below, but not these newcomers. I can't believe I did not discern it before. The rot, the foul smell, the lumbering gait. Those aren't humans lumbering towards us, those are walking corpses—fellow undead! '

With that said I galloped at full throttle, ignoring the cries from my staff to turn back. As I moved I read the magical words from a scroll I kept in my pocket for just these occasions, a scroll of universal translation.

The 7th's demise was unfortunate, but I was confident it could be fixed with the aid of one of your greater Valk'yr.

I met them in a hundred meters. Their arms carried swords outstretched towards me, which could reasonably be expected given the bad fortune they had to endure.

My voice, speaking in an unfamiliar yet knowable tongue, spoke first. "Hold my brethren, my kin. We are allies in cause and I have no wish to fight you anymore. From a distance you looked human, and I did not realize until the Blight that in truth you were one of us, a Forsaken. I cannot apologize enough for the loss of our brother."

The lumbering giants slowed, and then stopped completely. They seemed in total surprise of my knowledge of their tongue. Many who knew not of the translation scrolls of Archmage Rosetta could be expected to.

"You speak…our language?" One of them practically gargled out. "You are one of us, one of the rotted? One blessed by the All-father's gifts?"

I had to ask him to repeat the phrase two times, as his voice seemed to suffer from some type of severe lisp. In fact, to use this crude description, it sounded like the poor fellow was choking on a swarm of flies even as he was trying to talk. When I got it correct I found his word choice odd, but nevertheless answered.

"Yes my friend, I am indeed. I am a 'rotted' in the service of our Lady and Savior, the Banshee Queen Sylvannas Windrunner. In her name, I am overjoyed to see that there are more 'rotted' in the world. Long had we thought we were alone."

One of the six, a particularly excitable gentleman, waddled up to me and, before I could insist on proper formalities first, picked me up and hugged me. My spine was nearly crushed by the gesture of friendship, but I was unnerved by the tingle in my skin the touch gave. A tingle of something moving.

"Look at his body, Glutrog. See what a glorious state of rot it is, how slimy and wet it is to the touch. A bit cold though."

I confess myself discomforted. My attempts at friendship were rapidly progressing into something more, something I was not entirely comfortable with. I quickly expressed my desire for friendship only that we had just met and it was way too soon to even consider moving beyond that.

They chuckled, and one of them held out his hands indulgently.

"Welcome brother, and know that you are no longer alone. There are millions of us marching in the Legion of the Three-Eyed King. Through his divine leadership we shall spread our master's glorious rot, contagion and life across this new world. "

Up to this point I had been nodding along politely, not wanting to offend what might have been new allies. At the word, 'life' I stopped. There must have been a mistake. "I think I might have misheard, good sirs. Don't you mean spread death and decay across the world?"

The man was confused. "No new friend. I meant glorious rot and life, for the Allfather loves all life in every form."

It was then that I realized I had made a horrible mistake in daring to think I had made a horrible mistake previously. These men swarmed with vile mites, leeches and diseases unseen. Hearts beat in chests, sometimes multiple hearts per person. These were rotting humans yes but they were fuller of life than anything I had ever seen before.

First came fury at my mistake, then pity and finally compassion. These individuals had proven themselves friendly and courteous, of good manners for a barbarian tribe. Yet they were full of a vile infection that must be cured promptly and properly. I told them this with the kindest sentiments in my un-beating heart, that I would save them all from the Curse of Life and renew them in Shadow.

I told them this, spoke quickly about their disease and their salvation. They did not respond well, as humans rarely do for the hold of the disease known of life is too great for them to break free without outside assistance. Though my swashbuckling skills are renowned across the empire, the foe suddenly turned against me and fought like champions. Without the intervention of Darthailia, the Dark Rangers, an Abomination named Chet, a group of three adventurers and eventually the Victorious Deathguard, I would have fallen. Even so thanks to their extreme skill and multiple weapons two dozen of our Deathguard fell to the six, along with two rangers, before they were hacked down.

With the battle finished I left statistic recording to Darthailia with the Lesser Valk'yr performing the task of glorious rebirth (notation 4). As I walked back to the town I confess my spirits were low and wary, for losses had occurred and I had failed to save seven of the most heavily afflicted individuals of 'life' ever seen.

As I nearly entered the town I stumbled across a woman crying, cradling a fallen soldier in her arms. The man had been impaled on a spear by a barbarian in battle. My morale immediately rose—here is a way I could both bring more Forsaken into the fold and show the living death is not to be feared (well, at least not first Death. True Death is, of course, to be avoided). I quickly called a Valk'yr to my side and, at my command, she resurrected the young man. Alas the maiden screeched and screamed, kicked and bit as her newly risen beloved, confused by her behavior, attempted to embrace her. She ran away from him most cruelly as the poor soul unceremoniously dropped to the ground and wept (or would have wept had he been able to shed tears).

Here, I confess, I lost my temper. After having dealt with the deliberate ignorance of the living for the last two days, and the ignorance of the Alliance and the insane zealotry of the cursed Crusade for years before that, I could no longer tolerate such willful disregard of the rights of the dead, and the self-induced delusions of the living. The Living truly could not cure themselves, trapped by an inescapable disease that made them callous to those who had chosen a new, superior unlife. With the exception of the few already noted below in Notation 2, few showed a change to this behavior despite my presence. Enough was enough. I looked around. The Horde emissary—an Orc, naturally—was ensuring the Blight was properly loaded. With a word to Shadow Priestess Morria he was put into a deep sleep in which he would eventually wake up and not remember a thing. The cure for his condition would not come today of course—tactically, I had to admit that the rest of the Horde might not understand the enforced rebirth of its citizens.

Yet that meant nothing for the townspeople. I may have failed in helping my friends from earlier (as noted in Notation 4, they could not be revived) but I would not fail to address their needs. The work that followed was grim, and lasted a few hours, but necessary. Our gains quickly made up for what losses could not be reconstructed.

Sincerely,

"_**Lo**_**r**_**d-Com**_**ma**_**nder" **_**S**_**ir Regi**_**nal**_**d **_**Requi**_**em (R.**_**R**_**.) **_

** Notation 1:** It seems the rumor of daemonic acquisition of souls after death that had been spread recently had led a frightened populace to look at the Forsaken as a desperate defender would look at a castle wall. As salvation. It has been alleged by our new, somewhat reluctant allies that this claim was spread falsely by Forsaken Deathstalker agents to drive up recruitment and "steal souls that belong to the Light" but I am sure this is completely unfounded. On all accounts of course. Though if it were true, a hypothetical certainly, several promotions would be in order.

**Notation 2:** The ignorance of man continues to astound me, my lady. Later after the battle I resolved to explain myself fully to the gentlemen, to explain that the offending Deathstalker had alleviated the victims of a great illness and that his true offense charged was merely assault and the cost of replacing the wasted blight. When I made known of this wish to High Executor Darthailia, however, the executrix hastily pulled me aside and said that this was a most unwise course. Confident in my beliefs, I resolved to press on without her approval, but Ms. Darthailia was insistent. As her intuition aided us greatly in the preceding battle, I reluctantly acceded to her command.

**Notation 3:** This statistic was estimated after the battle, where the arrows that could be salvaged were meticulously picked from the corpses of the fallen. The adventurers responsible were given their standard fee of five gold each, as is proper, and then directed to another town several miles away for their next task.

**Notation 4:** In attempting to resurrect the barbarians as new Forsaken, our Valk'yrs ran into increased difficulty than normal. Many of those resurrected were too unconditionally and totally brainwashed by their upbringing, attacking themselves or others upon awakening, and had to be put down. However others ran up to us with metaphorical tears in their eyes and promises of eternal loyalty, telling their angels of salvation that during their brief tenure in the afterlife they felt something hunting them through the void. Most ominous were those who we could not awaken at all, for the Valk'yr could not feel the touch of souls for those individuals no matter how hard they tried.


	4. Lightfall

"Stand fast, champions of the light, and no foe shall overcome us! Before our faith the uncounted hordes of the Lich King, the savagery of the orcs and the unholy monstrosities of the Burning Legion were broken with righteous fury. Now those who choose to imitate Sargeras' fallen legions shall share their fate! "

It wasn't exactly a true claim of course. This new foe was clearly ancient beyond human reckoning, and if what the magi claimed was true, it may have been _Sargeras_ who was the imitator rather than vice versa. That didn't matter to Paladin for these creatures were just as foul and unholy as the next, if in different shades.

Just as the Alliance was a righteous mix of many noble races working toward common good and the Horde a coalition working for common survival, the new enemy before him was also a mixture of different daemon types, crazed fanatical tribesmen reminiscent of the Vyrkul, filthy vermin and horrible man-beasts that, despite the similarity, possessed none of the nobility of the Tauren. He had heard still other creatures existed in this Legion of Debauchery, such as malicious dwarfs, blood-mad elves and yet worse races, but fortunately he had yet to see them.

Raising his hammer, Paladin Luc Dawnbringer blessed the soldiers at the forefront with light-backed vigor. Energy and morale renewed, the frontline footmen hacked at their barbarian foes with greater zeal than before, blessed by the magnificent powers of the divine. Reacting quickly Luc next healed a Dwarven Footman with a cut to his throat and instantly sealed up the wound. Though woozy from loss of blood the soldier continued to fight, albeit weakly, barely deflecting a blow aimed at his helmet. Still the dwarf gave a cry of thanks.

The Paladin smiled sadly; these men deserved whatever aid he could provide, for he knew none of them were making it out alive.

In truth it was a hopeless suicide mission, a desperate rearguard action. All volunteer. Their mission was only to buy enough time for evacuation forces to teleport away those still inside the city. Luc and his forces of about a hundred or so would hold the city gate (which, as far as he could tell, was the only real entrance into the city) to buy time. A hundred against a horde of thousands, at least. The original plan had been for them to hold until the all-clear was given for command, whereupon the group's mage would create a portal to teleport the surviving squad mates out of there. At the same time, aircraft above would contest the walls to prevent the enemy from gaining them and buy time for the military of the natives to move equipment.

At first the skirmish went smoothly, with the mage temporarily freezing the gateway solid and then blasting dozens that managed to come through with well-placed icicle projectiles. Those who made it past the magical barrage had to deal with the Alliance's heavily armored footsoldier. Unfortunately the enemy had adapted, sending daemonic dogs through a hole in the ice. Ice, fireballs, even arcane blasts all dissipated before the foul collars of the beasts. Zealous marauders took advantage of the distraction to break through the Ice Gate. Dawnbringer had brought his own Light to bear to defend the mage, only for the collars to have the same effect. In desperation Dawnbringer had charged in with his own mighty hammer, helped by footmen who could spare themselves from holding the front. After a brief but vicious fight he and the footmen hacked and smashed the dogs to pieces, but it was too late for the mage. The mage had been weak, unable to fight a foe designed specifically to hunt her kind and Luc had failed to protect her.

A failure made all the more horrible by the small fact that that mage, Eliza, had been his wife.

Luc attempted to use the Light to heal a beleaguered Footman at the front only for a sudden blow to slice through the boy's neck entirely, putting him well beyond salvation on this plane of existence. The Paladin adjusted accordingly, and beseeched the light to magnify its intensity. Ever faithful, the Light did as commanded, and a few marauders at the front were blinded by its sheer luminosity. The Footmen took advantage of the distraction to plant swords through unprotected ribs. Unfortunately others shielded be press of bodies from the blinding light pushed aside their afflicted fellows to the ground and charged in regardless. A Footman who overextended himself was tackled to the ground while another took a Warhammer to the helmet, its tip penetrating through steel.

It was true that many in the order looked at the Magi of Daralan with suspicious eyes. Mages had long been thought of as fools who coaxed their own corruption, to be tolerated only because Duty and Honor demanded so (this was the same mantra that forced the Holy Orders to tolerate unholy Warlocks, though with far greater reluctance). Yet Dawnbringer had looked past the dogma and seen the Light in this mage's every action. During the campaign against the Lich King he had seen her risk her life to protect Tuskarr refugees from mighty Jormundar wyrms of the Ashen Wastes, brave a blighted village to teleport Wolvar children to safety, and lead a daring assault into a Nerubian lair. The pair had worked together on these missions, at first only as distant partners, then as friends and, finally, as more than friends. It was after the campaign of suppression against the Worgen of Grizzly Hills (who were unfortunately unlike the noble Gilneans in every manner) that he had asked the obvious question, and she had accepted. The rest was, as they say, history.

Luc sighed. Now it really was history. His only solace was that his wife lay in the gentle comforting arms of the light now. In the past he might have given to grief and anger, throwing himself at the enemy in reckless abandon and extreme prejudice. He certainly had after the Great Betrayal of Lordaeron, when Arthas had butchered his father's kingdom in a few days. Many of his brothers had been lost to the Scourge or else driven to the insane zealotry of the Scarlet Crusade. He himself had come close to joining the latter, but was ultimately inspired by the example of Lord Fordring and chose a higher path. A path of enlightenment that allowed him to overcome the lower road to vengeance that in turn led to a life of unending murder.

However another possibility that the Paladin was intellectually honest enough to admit was that over the course of Azeroth's endless conflicts he had become so acclimated to death that not even that of one as close as his wife could provoke an extreme emotion. Indeed this new conflict had only given him greater loss, and both he and his wife had lost trusted friends, including the best man at their wedding, in a raid on a Vermin-burrow the week before. Though that raid was ultimately successful in that they rescued the captives, the pair and a handful of fellow soldiers had only escaped by the skin of their teeth.

Suddenly, a command roared out and the fur-clad marauders pulled back. Luc shouted out a command of his own, ordering his footmen, warriors and guardsmen back into a centralized formation. The Paladin commander took a quick survey of his own forces and noted the dismal results. In the last thirty minutes more than two thirds of his original force had been worn down by successive waves of barbarians, beasts and daemons. The former admittedly did not offer his force supreme difficulty and indeed seemed to have a modus operandi that favored lots of space and duel-like scenarios, neither of which could be found in the crowded gateway. Worse for the savages as the narrow path filled with bodies room to maneuver was likewise limited, resulting in yet more causalities for the invaders. This did not deter the invaders in the slightest. By estimation his force of a hundred probably killed almost three times its number but the zeal of the enemy was impeccable.

In particular the Daemons posed a terrifying and ferocious otherworldly threat that could not be easily countered. Earlier a handful of Daemons with blades made of hellfire and burning runes had assaulted his position with maddening fury and a lust for blood that could be felt as well as seen. Their charge temporarily broke the shield wall, their blades remarkably capable of hacking through steel and soul alike. It was a point of pride that his men did not waver, and though clearly intimidated by their new foes they reorganized, and had combined to work together to hack them to insubstantial dust. The Light had done its particular part for its hallowed properties are the antithesis of all daemon kind.

Now a new foe was coming. The savages outside the gate began beating their shields and chests. Next came a chant, spoken over and over again. Curious Luc took out a scroll his wife once gave him, a marvel in magic that had allowed global empires to function. Thanks to the efforts of Archmage Rosetta and her supporters Alliance adventurers had traveled across three worlds with minimum difficulty in understanding the locals.

He quickly read its arcane words and instantly the nonsensical became translatable, though it still didn't make sense.

'_Chosen! Chosen! Chosen!" _

Chosen?

"_Chosen! Chosen ! Chosen! "_

Above the deafening roar of the crowd a clanking of solid metal on pavement could be heard. Luc felt his heart begin to race; this would not bode well.

"_Chosen! Chosen! Chosen!"_

Luc hurriedly ordered his men to reload what crossbows they had left in their possession. In rows, so a sudden rush couldn't take advantage of the lapse in formation. He needn't have worried.

"_Chosen! Chosen ! Chosen!"_

The savage crowd parted, revealing fifteen giants of metal and muscle from which hung an aura of pure malevolent might. Skulls, some stylized and others horribly real, adorned the armor. Strange and foul symbols that hurt the eye to perceive covered other portions of the armor. Though not physically as large as the Vyrkul of the Icy North that was their closest familiar, just from appearances alone Luc could tell they were more formidable in spades.

His men hastily finished reloading the crossbows, their hands starting to shake as they hadn't before.

"_Chosen! Chosen! Chosen!"_

A one-armed warlord stepped in front, a creature of such malice that reality itself seemed to reject his presence. Mounted on a giant snarling dog of brass and blood the size of an ox reality seemed to twitch under the man's very presence. Strange colors emanated from his form, leering faces hung in the air one moment before dissipating instantly as the eye blinked. Somewhere, perhaps over the crowd or perhaps in the paladin's own mind, he could hear the terrifying screams of the damned as they endured unimaginable torment.

The Tenor of the crowd changed

"_Champion! Champion! Champion_!"

The champion's eyes swept across the foe before him, moving calmly across the remaining forty or so footmen who, though clearly frightened, nevertheless stood motionless in their posts. Then the eyes of the scion of Darkness met that of the champion of the Light, and remained locked. Around the champion the vibrant colors seemed to intensify with new passion while Luc felt the Light magnify within him.

Luc knew he was not suited to a direct fight. Among those of his order he had chosen to specialize in the path of healing and rejuvenation rather than that of explicit defense or retribution. While Dawnbringer abstained from neither, nor feared the prospect of either, he recognized the disadvantage he would shortly be in.

Yet, and the Paladin stole a glance here at the body of Eliza, he would not shirk from his duty. He never had and never would.

Suddenly a corpse broke through a crowd, a ghoulish figure that was more skeleton than flesh, more rags than skin. Its skull was sunken, its chest maimed with all sorts of fell-wounds. It took the Paladin several long moments to realize it was a man still, not a cadaver. Yet it was also clear that he would not remain so long.

The pitiful creature tripped and fell to the dirt as the crowd fell silent. Blood and bile poured from his mouth as the body twitched and spasmed. Then, with laborious difficulty the man picked himself up, breathing deep and heavy. For a moment the paladin was tempted to heal the creature, yet the Dark Marks branded into the ghoul-man's skin caused him to hold back.

Cracking, the head lifted itself slowly up towards the now frightened footmen, flickering between the soldiers of the ranks. Then, with eyes locked up Luc, the man bellowed a simple declaration but not one in his own tongue, but that of the humans of Azeroth.

'_**HER HARBINGER COMES!'**_

With his last bit of energy expended the man collapsed.

It was then that the Champion, the Harbinger raised his sword in the air in a primitive salute, a gesture his followers aped. Without further preamble his warriors charged past him as one, the still-chanting fur-clad barbarians flowing behind him.

"Footmen! Open Fire!"

Two dozen bolts sprang through the air, burying into flesh and steel. Yet, no matter where they buried, they seemed to do not nothing more than aggravate the Chosen and did nothing to halt the momentum of their charge. Even a shaft to the eye could only slow the brute briefly. The daemon-corrupted man stopped for a pair of long moments before snarling loudly, pulling the shaft from the socket (with the eyeball gruesomely still attached!) and charged towards the man who fired it. One volley was all that could be unloaded in time. Hastily, and with greater trepidation than before, the Footmen lifted their shields one last time.

Like a brick thrown through glass the Chosen crashed into the Footmen wall. Crashed through it. Footmen were hurled backwards or else only narrowly kept their footing. Other soldiers tried in vain to slice or stab through the Chosen metal yet only one made through the joint succeeded. And that just made the injured Chosen angrier. The Chaos soldier's avenging strike cleaved straight through the man's helmet and buried itself halfway down the skull. Other Chosen tackled fallen foes, pinning them with crushing weight the iron warriors tore through steel carapace with animalistic savagery.

To make matters worse the periodic aircraft fire from the top of the walls had ceased. Guttural noises could be heard above.

Something was in the air. The Paladin's determination strained for a moment as his anger and rage rose to a crescendo, the desire to kill and murder threatening to overwhelm training, discipline, and even the Light's presence itself! Willpower prevailed. Luc shook off its affects, though his men were not so lucky. Several of them visibly struggled to suppress the sudden homicidal urge to fight with reckless abandon, while at least two abandoned what was left of the shield line entirely to charge in hacking haphazardly into the enemy mass. They were swiftly surrounded and torn apart. Whether the result was distraction or total disorder the marauders took advantage of the ill-discipline to press forward. Already they had passed out of the gateway and into the field surrounding it. No longer constrained by the tight confines of the gatehouse the superior numbers of the marauders rushed across the flanks of the footmen.

The situation had already deteriorated beyond any salvation, Luc noted with a rising panic. Yet he also knew that the evacuation needed more time, that he would have to buy it.

Turning to the heavens he screamed with all his might

"Light give us strength!"

Ever faithful, the Light responded graciously. Men who previously had felt terror and hopelessness in their hearts suddenly were renewed by otherworldly zeal and fresh vigor. Their blows now hit harder, and with burning light that made even the flesh of the Chosen sting. Still the power of the foul Daemon Darkness hung over their foes, and as yet only a few had been wounded, not destroyed.

That would change.

Luc may not have specialized in the combat applications of the light, but he would not, could not shy away from it here. He and his men were doomed, as he had known they were from the beginning, but every life saved by delay to the enemy forces made the death more glorious and worthwhile. Luc believed firmly with all his heart that just as the heroic defenders of Mt. Hyjall bought time for Stormrage's plan to come into fruition, delay would only serve to help the forces of the Alliance and Horde build a stronger position to destroy this foe once and for all.

His hammer beamed so brightly with the light that it seemed to him that the tiniest portion of the sun had fallen from the heavens. In fact he could feel the light shining over his entire body. Hopelessness and fatalism disappeared entirely. With a battle cry the Paladin charged into the melee.

The first mighty blow with his hammer slammed into a chosen's pauldrons. Charged with his holy might his blow did what no Footman axe or sword could do and dented it inwards. The Chosen's focus immediately shifted to this new threat. In a blurred motion the chaos warrior slashed his fel-crafted sword across the Paladin's chest. Steel bent before its path as if it were little more than leather armor .From the first strike alone the Paladin nearly fell, and perhaps would have had not the enchanted jewels socketed in his armor by Draenei artificers willed to life. As with all tools of that Light-Blessed race, the jewels themselves held fragments of magical or divine energy. As the blade slashed into a particularly large jewel it chipped and sung when struck, but ultimately arrested the momentum.

The speed of the blade surprised Luc, but merely affirmed a past comparison. Here were the corrupted blademasters of the Everchosen, just as the Burning Blade clan exemplified martial arts of the Horde. For a moment he wished he was a Paladin of the martial variant, a follower of the retribution path.

Unnoticed by the Paladin the ground trembled as the champion of the Blood God, unable to suppress his mount's innate bloodlust nor that of his own mount any longer, stormed forward. The two ton combination of brass and iron crashed through several marauders, goring them as it past. Those unlucky enough to fall beneath the creature were ground to paste beneath it. The Harbinger eagerly joined, his sword cleaving across the skulls of two more chaos men. There was no shame, no regret in the killing of allies here; after all it did not matter from where the blood flowed, only that it continued to do so.

Meanwhile, Dawnbringer discovered quickly mortal man could match the Chosen's reflexes. Only the light-enhanced of Dawnbringer allowed him to keep up- barely. The Paladin deflected the Chosen's next chop deftly however he had no opportunity to take advantage of the triumph. An instant later and the sword were narrowly deflected off his side, followed by a third blow to the groin. The Chosen pulled back to thrust it directly towards the sternum. Luc tried to parry the blow but here the superior strength of the barbarian forced it through, and then through steel and jewel armor alike.

The Paladin labored in vain to suppress his cry. The terrible corrupting magic endowed in his blade sapped his strength, poisoned his blood and set his very spirit afire.

In desperation he called upon the healing properties of the light once more. Then, just as the barbarian was about to strike again Dawnbringer amplified the light and redirected it. A Forsaken Apothecary had once told him, in a rare moment of peace between their two factions, that what could heal could easily kill in larger quantities. The adage proved true here.

A brilliant flash of blinding light slammed down onto the chaos warrior from the heavens. For a moment a deep, terrifying scream echoed across the battlefield. The Light judged the Chosen, judged his every action, sin and daemon enhancement, judged his very soul itself. And then it cleansed. Dawnbringer watched in awe as it burned away everything in its charge to 'purify and renew'.

When the light dissipated a few chunks of scarred armor and scorched gore fell to the ground. Only dust marked the rest. Dawnbringer bowed his head in both gratitude for the Light's intervention and some faint feelings of sadness that his foe had become so corrupted that his soul was truly past redemption.

There were only thirteen footmen left now. Using the blinding burst of light as cover (for it had briefly stunned the barbarians) the soldiers maneuvered around the Paladin and formed a defensive circle. Weakened, exhausted by an hour of conflict the shield wall was a pathetic shadow of its normal glory. But as a last stand at least they would die together. For his part Dawnbringer knew he had expended too much energy in the last attack and his defense would now suffer.

Before the barbarians could charge something large and mechanical howled a dread cry of hate, rage and bloodlust combined. It slammed through the barbarian ranks violently and then, without stopping a moment, slammed into the Footmen.

All fourteen men were sent flying. Two were crushed underneath the thing's long strides. Another got back up and tried to drive his sword through its eyes. The creature growled and then impaled its attacker on its blade horn in the same manner of a woolly rhino of Northrend. The Footman vomited up a stream of bile, blood and gore onto the creature and its master. Most appallingly the creature seemed to relish and grow strength from it.

Now the barbarians hit the shattered force. In group and formation the Footman was more than a match for any barbarian. Armor, steel and discipline ensured the bulwark of the Alliance suffered far less causalities than the frothing, blood-mad, berserk and unwieldy barbarians. Alone however, was a different story as marauder skill, ferocity and experience of constant bloodshed gave an impressive edge. The numbers of the barbarians made the contest only more one-sided. Even as he glanced three barbarians tackled one Footman to the ground while another physically overpowered a second, wrenching the heather shield from weakened grasp. Before the he could recover the barbarian slammed his club into the Footman's neck hard enough for a loud, audible crack to be heard over the din of battle.

No hope for survival, only for further delay. Despite being thoroughly exhausted Luc dragged himself up for one last sortie.

One last time the Light answered his pleas. Light bathed him its glory. His mallet shone so brightly to be blinding. His spirit and fledging morale was momentarily restored.

With a last battle cry the Paladin thundered towards the Chaos Champion. However others had different ideas. Two marauders, eager to achieve glory from killing the enemy commander, rushed into his path. The first leapt at the Paladin, his dual blood-caked swords seemingly aching for a refresher. Luc did a half turn with his arms at shoulder length and swung. The Hammer caught the flying barbarian right in the chest and hit so hard that it caused a several inch long indentation. Needless to say the barbarian did not get up.

The Champion was yet distracted by the blows of one of the last footmen, his mount still trying to shake off the impaled, dying man. The second was more cautious and with a spear and shield adopted a more defensive stance. Dawnbringer blinded him with a blast of light and before the marauder could recover slammed the hammer into his knees. Luc sprinted past the collapsing man, eager to save his most powerful blow for the champion himself. Other marauders rushed after him, but they were not yet close enough to interfere with his path.

The Champion caught sight of him, the menacing glare nearly breaking the Paladin's spurt of bravery. His axe waved out in an obvious signal of a challenge, an aspect of his culture held to be nearly sacred. Most of his followers wisely backed off. One blood-mad, foaming, naked Berserker ignored the warning, rushing forward. Before the Paladin could even raise his guard the berserker split in two. His frontal half landed a full ten feet from his other half. Amazingly the warrior attempted to crawl forward still, his one arm barely holding onto his cleaver, his sanguine eyes fixed upon his potential prey. The Paladin brought the hammer down on his skull.

Behind the Paladin the last remaining footmen wearily rallied, not even the Light's basking glow able to stop feet from quaking. That they would stand at all was a testament to their courage, integrity and honor. Traits lost on these barbarians.

The Champion waved his axe again, this time with impatience. The Paladin lifted his hammer in acknowledgement, knowing that this challenge could only buy his men- and the city behind him- more time. Behind the Champion the marauders began to bang weapons against shields rhythmically, while the newly arrived Beastmen brayed.

Now was his only chance. The Holy warrior rushed towards the unholy. The Champion dismounted, his mount growling but stationary.

Using his waning reserves of energy the Paladin unleashed a burst of holy energy at his foe. The Champion's collar glowed malevolently and as the attack hit the energy redirected into it, absorbed as completely as the his wife's frost had been absorbed by the hound's from earlier.

The Champion gave an audible snarl as if the ineffectual blow was a mortal offense. Now the champion lumbered forward to meet the Paladin's charge. Luc was pushed back, unable to withstand the 1 ton momentum. His glowing hammer reached out only to be dashed aside by the champion's axe. Before the Paladin could pull back the second blow, made with the flat of the blade, and nearly backhanded the Paladin off his feet.

As the Champion brought his axe down the Paladin unleashed a burst of Blinding Light. Such was the high intensity of the attack that it blinded everyone around; footmen, chosen, clanging barbarians and braying beasts and even momentarily disoriented the Champion. Luc attacked again only to groan in pain as the axe unerringly deflected the blow and dug into his arm. As the Paladin prepared to heal a second blow scrapped off part of the calf on his right leg.

Too simplistic, too straightforward. What would his wife say? She who had always gently mocked his order's inflexible morals, hierarchal rules and emphasis on tradition. Eventually Eliza's emphasis on critical thinking and creativity affected her then-friend, and it was a severe deviation that led Luc to even consider pursuing Eliza in the first place. Though some in the order had derided him as tainted the Light never forsook him and glowed as brightly as before.

The rigid, straightforward duels of his order could not work here. This was a foe beyond him in every conventional manner, immune to his light-backed powers and as above him in dueling skill as a Tauren was a Gnome in height. But though Luc was unable to harm the Champion with sorcery, that didn't mean he couldn't affect others…..

As the Champion fully recovered from the daze Luc reached out with his nearly depleted reserves of the Light to two braying, jeering Beastmen directly behind him. With another exertion he attacked them mentally with the light. Not enough to kill but to enrage. The creatures screeched and, forgetting their place and the duel unfolding before them, rushed towards the hated human magician.

The surprised Chaos champion turned, his axe swirling to catch the two frothing, furious beasts that appeared to the entire world to be charging at him rather than at his enemy. In a single swipe two came to equal four, however the distraction gave the Paladin what he needed.

With all the might and stamina he could muster the paladin leapt in the air and brought his glowing hammer down just as the champion turned. With a loud, deafening crack the hammer hit the man's face so hard his skull did a 110* degree angle around in its socket. Not done, the Paladin called upon the last reserves of the Light he could command. After a few moments a massive, Light spawned hammer formed above the Harbinger's head, towering over it like the Executioner's axe.

"Now feel the Light's justice!'

Out of the corner of his eye he a moving shadow faintly appeared but had no time to reflect as the Hammer crashed down with the force of a Blackrock locomotive. The Light was so blinding that not even Luc could pierce through it. It was one of the strongest spells known to his order, a literal Execution Sentence, and though Luc's spell was less powerful than some of the mightiest Paladins in the world it would have burned a Mogu or Ogre to ash in nothing flat.

.

Which was why Luc could never have expected the axe to emerge from the fiery inferno. Nor, at such a speed, would he have been able to react to it in time even if he had anticipated it.

The axe drove deep, impaling the man through the lung, breaking open his rib cage, even penetrating the spinal cord. Not even the Light could heal that. Luc should have collapsed to the ground but something animated him still…

Agony hit the Paladin as energy far fouler and more painful than the axe itself spread throughout his body. A fel force more ancient and malevolent than even the Old Gods chained at the heart of Azeroth set every nerve on fire. Blood, fire and scenes of carnage seized control of his vision, the clamor of war beckoning. The land smelled of blood and brass, his tongue drowned in the metallic tang of blood.

Beside him the Harbinger pulled the axe from the Paladin, the fel force that now permeated the holy warrior serving to prevent him from falling. Setting his axe aside on his mount the one armed warrior stretched his hand out towards his skull, his hand lingering on the glowing red hot collar. Then, with a violent twist, the Harbinger forcibly set turned his head back to the correct position. The warrior glanced briefly at the fragments of his mount, the instrument of Khorne that had served him since his mistress had first raised him up long ago. Melted beyond recognition the steed had saved its master from a fate even dwarf steel and brass collar couldn't protect against.

Will not of his own animated Luc's limbs, commanding him to rise was it should be impossible to stand. Fire poured into his veins and his vocals sized up. The Holy warrior's eyes met that of the Champion and in an instant images flooded his mind of past figures, beaten in battle, which were forced to announce the Champion's presence to his next victims. A fate that would soon befall a Paladin, a fate that would see him transformed into the Harbinger of the Harbinger.

Desperate, Luc cried out for the Light.

Pain beyond reckoning, tenfold worse than the previous debasement, attacked his soul as the forces of corruption and anti-corruption locked in combat. His body, mind and soul the battlefield to be warred over with Scorched Earth. The Paladin's vision faded out until only a distant bright white light remained a fragment of hope cast before one on the precipice of a life of utter madness and despair. Luc ran for its holy luminesce even as the screams of his men filled his ears, the jeers of Daemons his skull, and finally the laughter of Thirsting Gods in his very soul.

_A.N. This little story has been in the works since even before I started Chapter Three but I had major issues with deciding where I wanted to go with it. Hopefully I concluded it in a satisfactory manner though the I had the end winner determined from the beginning._

_Onto specific reviews, in reverse chronological order_

_** Eoftar** I commented on your review in private chat but I wanted to summarize some of what I said here for other readers, which is mostly in regards to the series of short stories I write for 'Azeroth meets the End Times', in contrast to my other story, is going to mainly focus on the lowest of the four factions, those at the bottom of the society. Clan Recundus is an example of that, a bottom clan so weak and powerless comparably to the the Skaven that it would be classified as a 'Rabble Clan'- which is a clan type the Skaven don't even bother to record. All it really had were a handful of Stormvermin, slaves and clanrats. The latter two troops are types that are used for numerical effect only- that is, in terms of quality, wield scraps of weapons and armor (doubly so for a poor clan that can't afford to give them better), are poorly trained and of course poor in morale. Lorewise these troops are so low in quality Skyre weapon teams don't even bat an eyelash firing into their hordes for they believe they are worthless, and in several End Times scenarios these two units were repelled even when they had a numerical advantage of 20-1!_

_The Footmen is impressive by Warhammer Standards, as it is a base grunt troop with the steel armor, shielding, and sword of a elite knight, along with having small crossbows in game. Scrapped together rusted iron or even wooden weapons of slaves and clanrats are going to have trouble penetrating that barring a lucky blow to the visor or weak joint (which most Skaven wouldn't have the knowledge to look for) and the only way I could see them being killed barring those blows was when the Skaven swarmed over them (which is something they do in lore) . That is made harder by the tight formation of the footman and the low maneuverability of the room. That said Skaven leaders view these troops as worthless, easily replaceable and thus often use pure attrition with them to wear down their foes. The loss of large numbers does not matter in the slightest to the Skaven, or even Beastmen or Chaos commanders, for they have such numbers that almost never run out. Stormvermin are better, and I think I did have them inflict causalities on the footmen, though 1 vs 1 I wouldn't consider the two equal._

_To emphasize again Recundus is a dirt poor clan that could only barely afford the services of a Enshin ripoff or a minor Skyre team . Richer clans are far more formidable and can bring the services of the Four Greater clans in much greater numbers and quantity. If the Alliance chooses to make judgments from this battle they would do well to remember that the Skyre team actually broke through their lines, that the rip-off Enshin assassination squad killed several members. Neither Alliance/Horde is in for an easy time when it encounters a Clan like Mors for instance..._

_** MadFrog** Thank you for the kind comments sir!In response to the criticism you need not fear as I have both victories for all sides planned ahead ._

_** reality deviant** Thank you for the comments as well! I cannot say what the forces of the Old Gods say as of yet, but I can promise that I have some Warlock scenes planned in the future, and that they may well shed light on the Burning Legion's views (or at least that of certain daemons)._

_** Lord-of-Change** Thank you for your comments! To your criticism I will again promise victories of all sides, as well as losses, however I want to note that, lorewise in WHF, the forces of Chaos and Skaven probably do lose far more than they win (up until recently).Even in those victories, including those in the End Times, they take far more causalities than the order factions. It does not matter though, for Beastmen, Corrupted Man, Daemons and Skaven have such numbers to be easily replaceable . Archaon himself does not care if his forces take grotesquely disproportionate losses._

_I have a belief that the forces of WC are more qualitative and technologically advanced overall than the order factions of WHF . The Alliance basic linemen has the armor of a WHF knight, they possess far more tanks and aircraft (including **aerial aircraft carriers**) and have far more common, though weaker, magic (I will get more into this in another post, but basically in WHF you generally will have 1 magician maybe for 8-10k troops) . Same advances apply for the Horde, though they rely as much on physical durability and savagery than armor . Add to this the persistent ranged weakness of almost all Chaos forces barring Chaos Dwarfs and Tzeentich Daemon forces (no dedicated ranged 'core units' for majority of Chaos armies, though rich enough Skaven clans can hire enough Skyre rats to compensate) which will cost them at the ranged portion of almost every fight. That said, again, the numbers of Chaos and Skaven grunts i such they can afford to take much greater causalities than their WHF order equivalents as well as WC._

_** Moonreaper666** My friend, I am afraid you are guilty of high ending here and perhaps of not looking deep into context. Certainly there are impressive examples of exceptional individuals or entire clans but my goal here is to best take account the prowess of the whole rather that high end individuals, though they too have their place. I mean do you use the world's greatest jogger record to judge the running speed of the average man, do you use genius of Hawking, Einstein or other famous and brilliant name to judge the most common intellect of mankind!? In the novels I have read (re: all of them) Chaos marauders are generally shown to be far tougher than Empire soldiers true, but only in personal or individualistic combat. In formation fighting the Marauders lapse, requiring much movement and maneuverability, and are more often beaten by the Empire than not. This is recognized by Chaos Champions themselves who sometimes try to fix it, like the warlord in Angelika Fleischer's novel 'Liar's Peak' who pointed out that the Empire always wins because of its discipline and tried to get his soldiers to act in a orderly fashion (he failed) In the Blackhearts Omnibus (where I believe you got that 9-1 quip) the Empire eventually does prevail through formation tactics and pushes the Chaos force back._

_As Valkia and other novels show us, the median age for Chaos Marauders is 18-19. Those who live longer than thirty in the warrior culture are in fact considered a rarity, especially if they haven't gone on to become something better (like a Chaos Warrior) . Assuming the Chaos Warrior had only minor mutations and assuming average potrayal I would pit, 1 vs 1, a Footmen and a Marauder at even Marauder is more powerful and stronger, however the Footmen by now are going to have a high average experience from all the recent wars fought as well as superior weapons and armor . An orc grunt I think would prevail against the Marauder 1 vs 1 as the grunt has superior strength and endurance (barely) but it would still be close._

_In regards to the Gorehunt tribe it is a spectacular example (though the 7e AB notes the Araby armies numbered in the thousands, not millions) but without explanations we know little. We know little of the weapons and armor that Araby sent against them, in what exact number, and the equipment/mutations of the Khorne tribe. Did the Arabyans send their slave armies armed loosely that gave the Chaos Warriors so many causalities, did they send riflemen ect? We know they eventually sent in great beasts but what exactly were those beasts like? In the novels Chaos Warriors are more often than not potrayed as powerful fighters and Empire formations can only hold out so long against them, but they still take many causialties (particularly if they were fighting Dwarfs or Elfs) and are vulnerable to ranged fire. For a Khornate tribe ET Archaon has the Skrallamor, one of the most famous and powerful tribes of Khorne (compared to a minor clan like Gorehunt) , take huge causalities in assaulting Averheim and later Athel Loren._

_Actually I am under the opinion that the fact that WC being less brutal and grimdark is, in fact, a bonus rather than a con. Its what allows them to unify easier and together into cohesive forces, to dominate in wars across three planets, to advance miraculously in all things within a single lifetime while Order factions of WHF are all portrayed as arrogant, xenophobic, and backward. Consider that Chaos, as a faction, is one that thrives on the sins of mortals and they are facing here a comparatively more innocent faction (though both ALliance/Horde have done terrible things) This is in fact a major advantage I believe, as if the Order factions in WHF could unify successfully it is the opinion of two very important people that they would have won. The first is Josh Reynolds, the author of the first and final End Times book, who said bluntly that if Elves/Dwarfs/Humans had all put aside their differences early on, they would have won the End Times. The second is Archaon himself who states in the beginning of Glottkin that a Human/Dwarf/Elf alliance was a major detriment to his plan._

_I could go on, but I don't want my comment section to be longer than the story! Needless to say I am confident in both the chances of the Alliance/Horde and that of the Everchosen Legion, whose success in the last few years has been total. That is why I matched the two together as I believe they are so even. I do indeed consider the Everchosen scarier force than the BL, and while I have a lot more to say on the subject, in total force the Chaos Gods are indeed stronger than Elune (who is really the only WC god/goddess) though Elune is probably stronger than any non-Nagash non-Chaos God, and has a far easier time projecting her power on the mortal plane than others._


	5. A Brief Update

Update:

As one grows older and has more responsibilities, it becomes difficult to spend as much time as we should on our hobbies. However, though real life may now offer an adventure it never had before, I empathetically have not given up on this story. In fact I have written over 800 pages of a faction profile associated with the story and published it elsewhere on another site. It is an enormous profile of the Skaven/Chaos factions including their capabilities, units, heroes and weakness. Basically a source book on all things WHF Chaos and Skaven .

To those who want to look at it please PM me as FF's link policy means I cannot post it here.

My current plan is to finish Alliance/Horde profiles after Legion is out and then finally focus solely on the story. Thank you for your patience it is appreciated.


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